


Imagine: Matchmaker extraordinaire Dean pushing a doubtful Castiel into taking you to the haunted house at a Halloween carnival (ft. Sam and Dean Winchester).

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [43]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cotton Candy Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 06:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Matchmaker extraordinaire Dean pushing a doubtful Castiel into taking you to the haunted house at a Halloween carnival (ft. Sam and Dean Winchester).

Screams erupt, echoing from within the strobe light illumined sheet metal walls of the warehouse to thrum the apple fritter, deep-fried oil, and butter popcorn scented night air. The throng of people waiting in line titters and tumbles forward a few feet at a time as a rusted iron gate flings open and a man dressed as a zombie butler ushers the next group through a swirl of fog produced by a sputtering smoke machine and into the haunted house beyond. Voice affected with an over-the-top faux foreboding, he heckles them through the eerie threshold with warnings of the certain doom they will experience within and gives the cowardly among them a final opportunity to turn back. At the sound of a chainsaw revving, a new set of squeals rises above the excited conversation of the crowd.

Standing adjacent to the action, Castiel’s shining blue carnival bulb-lit gaze narrows in confusion as he watches a group of boisterous teenagers with glittery orange pumpkins and sparkling skulls painted on their cheeks exit and pass by jostling and poking fun amongst one another about their individual reactions to the spooky experience. Shoving his hands into his trench coat pockets in reflective reflex, intent on inquiring about the strange scene, he revolves a booted heel in the gravel to confront Dean. “I don’t understand the appeal of intentionally being frightened,” he murmurs.

A kid in a yawning _Scream_ mask bolts past loudly yelling, “Boo!”

Impassive, the angel’s squint merely intensifies.

Scowling and shooing the kid off with a mocked menace, Dean huffs, “Of course you don’t.” Rolling his eyes up and over his shoulder, he glances down the rows of red and white striped tents flanking the makeshift midway to seek signs of you and Sam returning with dinner.

Even Cas, with angelically acute powers of perception, can’t say whether the menacing growl occurring just then emanated from Dean’s stomach or the bordering ghostly attraction. It’s not often you all get a night off – let alone _on_ the most supernaturally plagued holiday of all, Halloween – and, spotting the golden glow of the festive gathering on the horizon from the highway, you’ve taken advantage of the occasion to visit this travelling small town fair.

Dean spots two corduroy, denim, and flannel-clad figures a few hundred yards away returning with an overflowing tray of chili dogs and fries. Stomach satisfied by the prospect of imminent greasy satiation, he spares Cas a serious stare. Tearing off a fistful of the cotton candy appetizer held in his grip with sticky fingers, he adds, “But trust me, you need to take Y/N in there.” He jams the wad of silken sugar in his mouth where it instantly dissolves.

Regard shifting to the puffball of pale pink confection wrapping the stick in Dean’s clutches, half of the angel’s features kink sideways, mutely expressing both mild revulsion and skepticism.

Thrusting the stick at Cas, the hunter magnanimously proffers a taste of the cliché fair treat.

Cas declines with a shake of the head.

“Your loss.” Shrugging, Dean briefly considers hiding the remnants of cotton candy inside the flap of his jacket before thinking better of it and chucking the whole affair into the nearest garbage can so as to avoid Sam’s fraternal ridicule over dietary indiscretions. He wipes the residual evidence stuck to his palms on his jeans and swipes a sleeve across his mouth for good measure.

Unclear whether Dean’s comment referenced the candy or the proposition of taking you into the haunted house, Castiel’s attention drifts again to the queue; he pays particular heed to the couples waiting hand in hand or with arms draped languidly around one another. It’s true the angel, in so much as he can dream, has dreamed of having _that_ , and the cozier potentials beyond mere intertwining of fingers, with _you_. He ceased long ago, however, to count the number of times in a day he felt the instinctual compulsion born of tender affection and profound attraction to reach for your hand and found it paralytically impossible to do so in affront to indwelling doubts about making a move that in its breeching of the outermost barriers of intimate contact might forever compromise your friendship. At this point in the earth side portion of his celestial career, these missed moments perch at the very top of a myriad of other, less consequential by comparison, regrets.

To Dean’s credit, with the angel having solemnly confessed in frustration his struggle several weeks ago while swearing the human to secrecy, the elder Winchester has not once teased his friend regarding his romantic interest in you which, with the brothers considering you practically a sibling, demonstrates unprecedented self-control. Perhaps it’s also partly because Dean knows you have the hots for the halo-sporting dawdling self-effacing feathered doofus and deep down he’s a sucker for a happy ending.

As for Cas, it’s not that he doesn’t trust the sage-ness or genuineness of Dean’s advice; rather, he simply cannot comprehend what amusement or diversion a skilled hunter like you, a hunter who has traipsed through hundred real haunted houses, slain dozens upon dozens of the monsters inhabiting them with bare hands and pure triumph of will, and salted and burned your share of bones in defense of the generally unenlightened public, would find in the ridiculous venture.

“Hey guys,” you greet, bounding up to where they wait with eyes only for the enamored, but hopelessly oblivious, angel; the smile broadening your cheeks evidences itself in your cheerful tone.

Returning your smile, with eyes only for the junk food feast, Dean squeezes your shoulder as he blusters by to raid the tray Sam balances in his arms.

“Watch it!” Sam warns as the tray precipitously tilts. He saves a soda from toppling sideways.

Castiel’s focus shyly lands on you, softened blues rising from the beaming smile to the splendor of your soul sparkling behind dilated pupils. Nostrils flaring on the intake of a totally unnecessary inhalation of oxygen in response to the beauty of creation standing before him, words, as usual in your presence, get stuck on the tip of his tongue. Jaw uselessly flexing at the hinges, he settles for donning what he hopes reads as a not at all awkward sociable smile but which actually renders itself as a barely perceptible twitch of his stoical, yet nonetheless handsome, semi-permanent pout.

Alerted by the continued silence to the seraph’s freeze-up, Dean spins and, thickly swallowing a mouthful of bun, beef, and chili, says, “Y/N, Cas wanted to check out the haunted house. I told him they’re stupid, but you know Cas when he gets his mind set on something.” Fisting a hot dog in each hand, he mimes a gesture that looks like a cross between seraphim stubbornness and a red-sauced explosion, possibly a frankfurter led apocalypse.

Sam, in a state of stupefaction, isn’t sure what exactly is going on but the fixed gawk seizing his features suggests he suspects Dean has finally lost his damn mind.

You, on the other hand, get the general gist Cas is being made the butt of another of Dean’s jokes. “Really?” You quirk an eyebrow in surprise – it seems silly that the seraph would be interested in something so outlandishly contrived as a haunted house, although you remain sensitive to the potential authenticity of his interest.

Castiel’s shadowed cheeks pink in embarrassment and yet part of him is grateful for Dean’s meddling, however ill-humored. Peering down at his tie, the angel who once swallowed Purgatory and declared himself the new deity of, well, _everything_ , digs around in his empty pockets in search of his mislaid self-confidence.

Dean wipes a wayward drop of dribbling chili from his chin, daring, “Yeah, _really_. You game?”

Spending some quality alone time with Cas? Hell, yes, you’re game! Suddenly finding yourself unable to look straight at the adorably fidgeting seraph, you mumble, “Yeah, sure Cas, I mean if you want to.”

The angel manages to disentangle his anxiously overwrought nerves enough to eke out a dignified bob of the neck akin to an acquiescent nod.

“Awesome.” Dean practically congratulates himself with a pat on the back for running successful interference on both your behalves. “Just remember those are real people in there, not monsters. You,” –he points in your direction– “no stabbing anyone, and you,” –Cas blinks on the receiving end of the digit– “absolutely no smiting.”

Sam’s sniggered snort reminds all assembled that the tallest, and arguably brainiest, member of the team is still standing there holding a half-devoured tray like a super-sized side table. “This coming from the guy who once punched a kid in a gorilla costume.” The younger Winchester smirks and sticks a couple of soggy ketchup-covered fries into his mouth.

“That damn dirty ape spilled my milkshake!” Dean scoffs in defense.

“And that’s why you ran shrieking for the exit?” Sam teases.

Ignoring the brotherly banter, you scuff the sole of your shoe on the ground, sling a small encouraging smile at the angel when he looks up from concentrated observation of his boots, and aim a thumb toward the quickly dwindling entrance line. “Better get going then, looks like they’re closing up soon.”

“Oh,” –with a bit of effort prompted by urgency lest another opportunity fly by, the single syllable spills off his stymied tongue followed by two coherent words forming the concession to action– “of course.”

If it were anyone else, you’d consider the apathetic sounding utterance a demonstration of extreme disinterest; but the angel isn’t just _anyone else_. You’ve memorized every line of his countenance, noted the location of every spot of stubble darkening his chin, mapped the disorder of every chestnut curl rebelling from his head, learned to interpret every facet of color glinting in those blues like a celestial mood ring, and the smile contained just beneath the surface of his expression that threatens any second to upturn the corners of his mouth and crinkle his eyes belays elation. Your heart skips a beat or three and rebounds a little faster as you shuffle off side by side, nearly shoulder to shoulder, sleeves occasionally brushing, toward the sinister smiling zombified gatekeeper.

“Ah, two laggards!” the man simpers upon your approach. “Welcome! Come in, do enjoy your stay, permanent or … _otherwise_.” He waggles his eyebrows, maniacal laughter brews in his throat as he swings the creaking metal gate.

Slipping through ahead of the angel, you pinch the bridge of your nose to stifle a laugh.

Leaning over, the man hisses, hot bare breath gusting inches from your neck, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

The hair on your nape rises involuntarily – he may be ridiculous, but the ominously whispered warning gives you the heebie-jeebies nonetheless. Distracted by involuntarily provoked dread, you try not to choke on the acrid smell of billowing smoke that swells outward as another door opens ahead.

Scuttling to catch up to you, Cas casts the man a reproaching glare. Looming over your shoulder, bending toward your ear as you tread into a gloomy cob-web bedecked hall, he assures in a matter-of-fact gravel growl, “That was a Shakespeare quote.”

You glance back into his blues. “I didn’t know you’ve read Shakespear-EARE!” Half-squealing half-chuckling, you spin in a small circle around the angel to dodge the chainsaw wielding clown jumping out of a murky corner littered with bloodied mannequin limbs.

Before Cas can ask you why on God’s green earth a clown needs a chainsaw, the swaying fluorescent tube light above flickers and dies, plunging the hall into pitch black. A rush of air and tickle of rubbery wings touches your hair and you swat at nothing, squawking, ducking, breathless.

A spotlight ignites the end of the passageway in blinding white. Unaffected by the simulated shower of bats, Cas cocks his head in curiosity and steps toward the terminus.

Straightening your still shuddering bent figure, you hesitate a few paces behind him, adrenaline pumping the tinny whine of the pulse in your ears despite knowing it’s a charade. “Cas,” you whisper after him, imploring him to be cautious. “ _Cas_!”

Too late, a cackling scalpel-wielding bloody-smocked surgeon and nurse round the corner in pursuit of a headless and right armless corpse in a sewn and bruised body suit leaving very little to the imagination and with very little being the apt descriptor for the unfortunate fellow.

In a blur of beige fabric, Cas instinctively throws his arm across your chest, flattening you both to the wall to avoid being trampled in the gory parade. “Are you okay?” He peers sideways, eyes flared with concern, both hearing and feeling the pounding of your heart – a good deal of the speedy thump- _thump_ is fright; every other glug- _glug_ is all fueled by angel.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Yeah, I mean it’s not real, right?” You remind yourself out loud through panted breaths.

“Right,” he agrees. Letting up the pressure keeping you secure, he looks again to the hall’s end. His tongue darts, flicking his lower lip. Lost in thought, he endeavors to determine how to get you out of here without further incident even though you’ve both acknowledged no actual danger exists.

It’s charming and so very Cas; reaching over, you can’t help but press your fingers into the angel’s palm.

He reacts as though you’ve done so a thousand times before – practiced as many times and more in his mind’s eye, the calloused curves of his fingers fluidly flex and enfold yours in warmth and reassurance.

He turns back to you, that previously checked compact thrilled smile freely stretching his cheeks and brightening his gaze in a fresh shimmering shade of uninhibited blue. “Ready?” He squeezes your hand tight.

You squeeze back, letting him know you’re ready for whatever is around the corner and so much more.


End file.
